


To Catch You When You Fall

by Thali_Quinn



Series: Three In the Morning [2]
Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: M/M, Save them, TW--mentions of self-harm, TW--suicidal thoughts, angsty af but happy ending, hella gay, ma poor boys, poor scout's just had a real shitty day ya'll, semi-graphic depictions of a mental breakdown, tw, what are feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-19
Updated: 2017-06-19
Packaged: 2018-11-16 01:42:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11243715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thali_Quinn/pseuds/Thali_Quinn
Summary: Scout has a bit too much caffeine, triggering a mental breakdown at three in the morning. Luckily, he's not as alone as he thinks.





	To Catch You When You Fall

**Author's Note:**

> Fair warning I wrote this in the few hours between three something in the morning and now, and I have in near about no way edited this at all.

He probably shouldn't've had that much Bonk! in one sitting, but in his defense it had been a rough day. Not that the overabundance of caffeine had helped him much. Maybe he should've just stayed in bed, avoided the day's shit show altogether. Maybe he would've slept for once. _But No_ , he thought to himself, _because then the Administrator woulda killed you for slackin._ He sighed and tossed his seventh(possibly twelfth) can of Bonk! into the recycling. Flopping unceremoniously onto the couch, he recounted the day's events.

First he gets a call at... six something in the morning, telling him his oldest brother Ricky was back in jail and the bail was a hundred thousand big ones. No big deal, he had plenty of money, but no one would tell him what Ricky did and it put a sour taste in his mouth, setting the mood for the arduous day ahead. The next shitty part to his morning was another small thing--they were out of cocoa puffs again. So he at all of Spy's fancy chocolate espresso beans for breakfast. Maybe not his smartest move, but the man had _clearly_ been the one to finish off his chocolaty cereal (none of the other mercs liked it very much,) and as his ma always said, turnabout is fair play. They were amazing, really, and almost made up for being out of cocoa puffs. Almost. Then there was the Heavy and the Medic.

He didn't want there to be any misunderstandings--they were like family to him, and he loved them both dearly--but sometimes they really didn't know when to just live and let live (pun fully intended). If he had a dollar for every time Medic got all up in his business, well... he'd be twice as filthy rich as he already was. First it was "Why the long face" and by the time he'd managed to sprint his way out of the common room and into the kitchen it had escalated into "Um gottes willen Scout just tell me what's wrong," and at that point he was irritated. _Really_ irritated. Why couldn't anyone ever leave him alone? Then the Heavy had joined in on his partner's invasive antics and cornered him.

"Why is leetle man being sketch and avoids Doktor questions?" the man had asked, hands on his hips as he stared down at Scout. And yeah, they were on the same team, and yeah, he knew that the large man would never hurt him, but damn if he wasn't terrifying, staring down at him like that through comically small reading glasses. Scout groaned and reached into the still open refrigerator behind him, pulling out two cans of Bonk!. The first one he gulped down in moments, throwing it carelessly into the sink, the second he took a large gulp and held onto.

"Rough mornin' s'all. M'fine an' ya can tell Doc that too, ey? I don't appreciate ya'll up in ma business like that first thing in the mornin', forreal," he snapped. It had become clear his teammate was not moving until he said _something_. Heavy sighed, a sad, _loud_ , whistling sound, before begrudgingly moving out of the younger man's way. Scout grabbed one more can of Bonk! for the road (aka the walk to the laundry room) before all but bolting away. And tripping directly into the Pyro.

Now he and the Pyro were chill--over the years they'd gotten to know each other and were pretty decent friends. But a face full of gas mask and flame-resistant scrubs that smelled like marshmallows and cadavers and kerosene and faintly of... vanilla frosting? was just _not_ cool. The fact that Pyro's first reaction was to give him a bear hug didn't really help--he was kind of suffocating. Not that he'd ever had said anything. Luckily he had yet to spill his open can of Bonk!. The merc chugged it down to avoid any further possible risk of spilling.  The unopened can remained in his other hand while he chucked the empty one into a nearby recycling bin. Engie's stance on environmentalism could be annoying, but Scout had to admit that the recycling bins in every room were real useful. After an awkward apology and good morning, he settled on a quick jog to the laundry room. He'd left his clothes in the drier the night before and while he knew that, really, it'd be fine to just put them away and call it done, his ma had taught him not to wear wrinkled clothes and well. If he rushed he'd have time to run them through one more time, and then maybe they wouldn't be wrinkled. It was then he realized he was out of his favorite scent of dryer sheets. With a _slightly_ dramatic sigh he banged his head against the appliance. Then again. And a few more times until he knew for sure he was going to bruise. Oh well. He opened and chugged the third Bonk! of the day.

The rest of his day didn't prove to be much better. He forgot this thing here, left that thing there, and got shot, burned, and "jarate'd" more times than he cared to count. Worse, he could feel his nerves starting to fray--the barely there to begin with amount of chill he had was all but gone, and he couldn't seem to stand still. Now that he thought about it that was probably why he kept dying--he didn't stay in one place long enough for Medic to heal him.  A few hours passed and the first third of the work day was through. During his lunch break, Demoman sat on the sandvitch Heavy had made for him, he accidentally sprained his ankle by tripping quite spectacularly over a napping Lieutenant Bites, who proceeded to claw the shit out of him. By the time noon had come and gone he had six cans of Bonk! in his system, and Scout kept drinking them to keep the inevitable sugar/caffeine crash at bay. The rest of the day went the same, and before he knew it he was lying upside-down on the ridiculously comfy couch in the commons, physically shaking and unable to control his wandering thoughts; because suddenly Ricky being in and out of jail again was really concerning, and what if Ma wasn't doing okay and was too afraid to ask for help, and what if everyone on the team actually hated him and wanted him gone?

What if they were swarmed with robots right now, defenseless and tired? What if the roof collapsed on top of them? What if Aliens attacked? What if the other team's spy suddenly started controlling Heavy's mind and he had to watch as every member of his team was ripped to shreds, only to be left alive at the last minute out of spite? What if everyone found out he was g-- and that's where he cut himself off. Everything else was _far_ more probably than anyone ever figuring _that_ out. All his relentless flirting with Miss Pauling made sure of that. Still, he felt his mouth go dry at the thought of someone knowing _that_ particular secret. It wasn't that he had anything against g-- _being queer_ , it was just that he never thought it'd be him, and didn't plan on letting anyone else think it either. Yeah, nobody gave Medic and Heavy a problem, but that was basic common sense--why would anyone willingly risk their lives by giving the megalomaniac and gigantic, angry Russian a reason to hate them? Everyone always picked on him anyways for being the youngest--he was only twenty-six after all. All the other mercs were over thirty. Well, he assumed Pyro was over thirty, he had no way of knowing really. Supposedly Engineer had seen his face before, but whenever asked about it? He refused to say anything and turned an odd pinkish colour. He was used to being picked on, used to being the youngest, but sometimes he got sick of it. Or maybe he just remembered that he was the one kid too many--the final accident.

He rolled off the couch onto the obscenely comfy rug, banging his noggin quite painfully on the steel coffee table. Sighing, he rubbed his head gingerly, jittering his way into the kitchen. He needed snacks, and he needed them _now_. Or maybe he could just collapse at the table and have a mental breakdown. That worked too. As a matter of fact, that's exactly what happened. Now Scout wasn't one for public displays of weakness; growing up in a house with seven other boys kind of did that to you. He hated admitting when things upset him and he absolutely _loathed_ crying around people. Which is why if he'd noticed Sniper perched on the counter, he _never_ would have fallen apart like that. But he was out of it, and so caught up in himself he probably wouldn't've noticed if the man was holding a gun to his head, never mind harmlessly nursing a cup of coffee. Another thing about scout--he talked to himself.  A lot.

Sniper almost left as soon as Scout came in--after all, he'd come into the commons area at three in the morning so he wouldn't have to deal with anyone--but something stopped him. Maybe it was the way the other man's eyes glazed over him, or maybe it was the fact that those baby blues were full of tears. Either way, it was quite clear Scout hadn't noticed him. He sat for a moment, very still indeed, and watched as the clownish, annoying, downright _sleazy_ boy always running circles around everyone and putting gray in Medic's hair crumbled.

There were no gross sobs, or dramatic gestures, at least not at first--no. First was the fidgeting with the frayed ends of the tape on his hands, the gnawing of the lower lip, and the steady trickle of near silent tears from Scout's eyes. Then there were the words, quiet murmurs, clearly not intentionally vocalized. Things like "what would mom say" and "ya goddamn useless failure," growing only more concerning until his lip was bleeding and his hands and forearms were bare for the world to see the neatly stacked cuts. He traced each of them, almost lovingly, scraping his nail against them in a way that couldn't've been comfortable. It was then he uttered five words that almost cost him his life.  

"Maybe I should just disappear," and from his pocket he withdrew a swiss army knife.

Scout couldn't begin to describe the way he’d been feeling at that moment. It was like everything that had ever been ugly in his life, everything that had ever made him feel small, useless, and insecure, swamped him all at once. Every inch of him was shaking, from the sheer amount of emotion he was experiencing or the caffeine overload, who can say. He spent all of his time-- _all of it--_ trying to come off as confident, funny, _straight_. He was none of those things. He was insecure, anxious, and _so_ fucking gay. There. In what would hopefully be his last moments, he admit it. He’s gay. Big fuckin’ whoop. All that means is he has somewhere warmer to look forward to.

He held the tip of the knife to the flesh between his blue-green veins, and for the first time in quite the while, he smiled. It was heart-clenching and beautiful in equal measure.

“I love you ma.”

Sniper had remained quiet and still through the whole ordeal, until the point of a very real, very sharp knife was digging into the delicate flesh of Scout's delicate wrists and he realized that the man in front of him had every intention to off himself.

 _Piss,_ he thought, _What the hell am I supposed to do here? I-I mean I’ve got to stop him obviously but what--and if he does it and I can’t stop him in time will the respawn even work? It gets kind of hinky when it’s self-inflicted damage I mean how the hell else would scout have so many scars on his wrist otherwise?_

Thankfully, his body moved much faster than his brain, and he had the knife out of the boy's hands and embedded in the counter behind them before any blood was drawn. Now Sniper looked at him-- _really_ looked at him--and took it all in. His giant blue eyes seemed wild yet dulled, and were puffy with tears; his smug, smirking mouth twisted into a soft smile that immediately dropped into a grimace, almost a pout; his eyebrows were knit together with shock and displeasure. Then he collapsed into Sniper’s chest, beginning to bawl like a small child. The other man tentatively wrapped his arms around the Scout, despite having no experience in any similar situation, and let Scout sag into him, crying harder than he'd ever seen anyone cry before. His coffee lay forgotten somewhere on the counter next to the knife, and Sniper's hands rested around the waist of a twenty-something year old _kid_ he didn’t think he’d ever see make an expression other than salacious or smug. He didn't think he'd ever see him the same way again.

It took a minute or so, but Scout managed to compose himself, more or less. He was, however, incredibly embarrassed. He nuzzled deeper into Sniper’s shirt, clinging desperately. Maybe if he didn’t look up now, he’d never have to meet the man’s eyes ever again. That did not, of course, work out very well.

Sniper didn’t really know what he was doing. People touching him was not exactly commonplace--although his mother did give him a bear hug whenever he visit--and to say he was a bit uncomfortable was an understatement. But Scout obviously needed it, and so he quelled his urge to pry the man off of him and bolt. Eventually though, there were no noisy sobs permeating the air, and the Sniper was at his limit for physical contact. Gently, he withdrew one hand from Scout’s waist, letting him hold himself up, and grabbed the side of his face with the other. He pulled his face from his chest roughly, but was surprisingly gentle. Sniper tilted the boy’s face and met his eyes. They were even more red-rimmed now, and his face was flushed. The look, though, the one that had scared him so much, was gone. He smiled at him the same way he’d smiled at Hootshot when he’d first found him--kind of awkwardly and in a way he hoped was calming.

“You’re somethin’ else, ya know that?” was all Scout said, squeezing his middle a bit before letting go completely, his hands hanging uselessly by his side. He was still shaking a bit, but that was from that caffeine. Sniper knew he should probably let go, but suddenly he didn’t want to. He had this funny feeling that if he let go of him right now, they’d never speak again. Somehow, he didn’t want that. So he held on a minute longer. His voice was gruff when he spoke, likely from all of the hours of not using it. The only people he really talked to were his Ma, Pa, and owl.

“S’on your mind mate?” he said, near cringing as his voice crackled and popped. Scout stared at him in what seemed to be wonderment.

“I think that’s the most y’eva spoke’ta me,” he said with a slight chuckle. Sniper flushed at that--and how could Scout be teasing him at a time like this anyway?!--but knew it was probably true. He shrugged, dropping Scout’s face if favor of gripping his hip. He hoped it was casual and not creepy--he just didn’t want the boy running off.

“Well, desperate times desperate measures ‘an all that. So?” Scout shrugged in response, avoiding his eyes. He’d make something up, but had a feeling Sniper wouldn’t buy it for a second.

“‘Dunno really,” he said eventually. “Just a ‘lil too much Bonk! and a ‘lil too much thinkin’ I guess. Sorry you hadda see that but uh… thank you.” Scout swallowed thickly. He was getting a bit choked up again. It had not gone unnoticed that Sniper had yet to release him, but he figured he probably shouldn’t say anything. If an attractive Australian wanted to hold him who was he to say no?

To Scout’s disappointment, Sniper nodded and let go, hands hovering until he was certain the other man wouldn’t bolt. He shifted awkwardly on the balls of his feel, and Scout thought he noticed the man’s trigger finger twitch. Huh.

“I… Jus’ glad I was there. I--” whatever he was going to say was cut off by a seemingly deafening _ding_. Two toaster waffles popped up out of the toaster, slightly burnt. The tips of Sniper’s ears turned almost comically red, and his whole body went rigid. He began opening and closing his mouth like a fish--as though babbling without noise.

“Th-those’d be mine,” he said, voice cracking quite the bit. Scout couldn’t help it--he laughed. Gut-wrenching, belly-aching, splitting-at-the-seams-about-to-pee laughed. Sniper shifted awkwardly, only getting redder, the blush creeping from his cheeks down his neck. He turned awkwardly from the other man, grabbing a plate and the syrup from their respective cabinets before grabbing the waffles. Scout had yet to compose himself, and watching Sniper awkwardly amble about only made him laugh harder.

Sniper had never been more uncomfortable in his life, he was certain. He'd been trying to have an honest moment, and now here he was, embarrassed like he was every other time he attempted human interaction. He poured syrup on his waffles in frustrated ribbons, stabbing at them in a manner that was decidedly melodramatic.

Scout's laughter subsided enough for him to recognize the other man's discomfort and he rose stiffly from the floor, joints aching and arms feeling naked without their tape. He pattered softly, footsteps inaudible even on the worn linoleum. Slowly, as though not to startle him, he placed a hand on Sniper's shoulder. The Australian shot up about five inches in the air, knocking his knees on the table and choking on his waffles. Luckily, Scout was able to keep his coffee from falling into his plate, preventing the Great Waffle Flood of whateverthefuck year it was (he stopped counting a while ago, but he was pretty sure it was still some time in the 1900's). He managed to keep himself from another fit of giggles, but only just.

“You alright?” he asked, biting back a smile. Sniper glared at him, still the same color as his shirt.

“Y'can't just—just-- _sneak up_ like that. You usually make so much noise an' then suddenly I can't hear you at all and s'just _wrong_ ,” he spluttered, coughing violently. “Y'were bein' all quiet like, and I don't really do touch much 'n--” he cut himself off, settling for somewhat sullen silence. Scout tried his best not to laugh.

“'N I was tryin' to have a serious moment wiv you and fucking _toaster waffles_ ,” he sulked. Scout smiled widely then, because damn that's cute. He was too tired to even deny or justify the thought—he just let it be. He slowly, oh so slowly, placed his hand once more on Sniper's shoulder. Despite the inch-a-minute approach, the man still flinched when touched. Scout squeezed his shoulder gently before retracting his hand.

“Right I... thank ya. A lot 'n I... I'd be dead if ya weren' here drinkin' coffee an' ea'in' toasta waffles at three inna mornin. So uh, yeah.” The way scout said “coffee” sounded like “caw fee” and it took a moment for Sniper to get over it. A fee for cawing? How does one charge birds? Then he realized that he meant coffee and smiled a bit.

“Yeah. I'm glad I was there,” he said, and steeling himself, offered his hand for a handshake. Scout accepted and they just sort of... stood there, smiling at each other dopily.

“I-I should--” Sniper gestured to his waffle with his fork, smile turning slightly more awkward.

 

_Four Months Later_

Two men sat side by side, perched atop a camper. One was roughly six foot two with dark hair, pale eyes, and gruff features. He had the scraggly shadow of a beard just begging to grow. The other seemed maybe five foot eight with light(er) hair, brilliant blue eyes, and a mischievous grin, revealing buck teeth. There was no inch of him to be found not absolutely _covered_ with freckles. The larger seemed to be knitting something, perhaps a sweater. The other had a sketchpad and pencil in hand, and had spent the last few hours draw his companion knit. Suddenly he paused, setting his sketchbook down beside him.

"Hey Snipes I uhm. I just thoughta somethin'." Sniper looked up from his crafting, making a mental note on how many stitches in he was. He raised an eyebrow in inquisition. Scout stuttered a bit, rambling and stalling until

"Well the thing is ya don't--ya don't know ma name 'n I thought maybe..." he swallowed thickly. "Maybe I oughta tell ya. So uhm. Yeah." He offered a sheepish grin. "The name's Jeremy, but ma friends call me Jem." his palms were sweaty, or he may have offered one to shake. Sniper smiled wide.

"Mundy. I've never really had friends, so nicknames never really mattered." They grinned like the idiots they are at each other a moment longer before Scout cleared his throat, turning an odd pink color.

"Ya know, ma Ma always told me ta never kiss a gal if I didn't know her name," he said, drawing closer. Sniper swallowed thickly and slowly set his knitting back in his basket. His brain was suddenly finding it very difficult to formulate proper sentences, and decide if he wanted to run or not.

"Yeah?" he winced as his voice cracked, and Scou- _Jem-_ smiled weakly. They were only inches apart now, the runner's legs on either side of the assassin's.

"'N I figure," he said breathily, arms winding around Sniper's neck, "y'ain't no gal but, _you_ at least know _my_ name 'n well. Now I know yours too. So I was thinkin' maybe, uh..." he trailed of, and stopped looking at the oh-so-interesting blanket they were sitting on, instead staring straight into Mundy's eyes. They were maybe a few centimeters apart, Jem's breath ghosting over the other's mouth bringing the smell of cheap bubblegum and energy drinks. Slowly, Mundy's hands moved completely away from his yarn and knitting needles, his left sliding up the lithe boy's thigh to his waist, the other cupping his face. He wanted this, god he wanted this, even if he didn't know what he was doing and felt fucking crazy. He gently swiped the pad of his thumb over Scout's cheekbone and the boy practically _melted_ into him, meshing their lips together like they'd been made to fit that way all along.

  
  
  


 

**Author's Note:**

> # Comment for Sandvitch


End file.
